


Silence is Sexy

by Frankieteardrop



Category: Rammstein
Genre: Feeling B mentions, First Meetings, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-09
Updated: 2016-08-19
Packaged: 2018-08-07 17:05:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7722727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frankieteardrop/pseuds/Frankieteardrop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“We are otters… Soul mates drifting together.  Don’t forget that.”  </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

                     “You have something in your hair…”  He said calmly, reaching up to pull a piece of lint out of my hair.  His fingers lingered there a little while so as not to pull the strands too much. “Sorry, it was bugging me.”  The club was unusually quiet for a gig night, and that was a little concerning.  We’d all heard of Feeling B, and for the bar to be this empty so close to show time was worrying.  I watched him for a moment longer, at the way his eyes seemed to trail over my whole self for a long time, taking in every detail, it gave me an odd feeling in my skin.  Not many people ever looked at me that way.  
  
                    He stood before me in a pair of, what looked like, leather pants.  I couldn’t tell in the darkness, but they looked as though they were leather, held up by the most hideous suspenders, over a red shirt.  On his head, sat this fur lined suede hat?  At least I think that’s what it was.  It could have been a dead cat.  None of his clothes matched, and when I looked down to the floor, I noticed he had no shoes on; how could he have been wearing no shoes in October?  It was freezing outside already, the winter creeping in so much earlier than normal.  This was potentially the oddest man I’d met in my life.  
  
                    “No, no, that’s quite alright.”  I replied, a smile pulling at my lips as I took a drag on my cigarette.  I’d only been smoking for a few years and felt exponentially cooler for doing so.  Everyone smoked, it was cool.  It’s just what we did in the 80s.  
  
                    “Does that ever happen to you?”  He asked me, patting himself down to search for a packet of cigarettes.  “You see something on someone, like an unturned hood, or a stray hair, or a piece of loose thread?  And it just bugs you to the point where you’ve got to fix it?”  
  
                    “I can’t say I’ve gone around turning stranger’s hoods the right way in. I’d probably be arrested.”  
  
                    “Listen, you know what I mean…”  He laughed then, and the smile on his face reached right to the corners of his eyes.  His whole face lit up.  My mother had always told me you could trust a person who’s smile reached their eyes; this must have been the most trustworthy person alive by that standard.  He found his crumpled box of cigarettes and placed one between his lips.  I watched him, in an obviously practiced move, roll the cigarette from the right corner of his lips to the left as he put his cigarettes away and searched for a lighter. I offered mine forward, having held it in my hand from lighting my own cigarette a few minutes before, and he nodded, thanking me with a “hmm” before taking a long drag.   
  
                    “Sorry, I didn’t quite catch your name…”  I asked him.  I knew the band he was from; I could tell by the terrible clothes I hoped he’d been forced to wear but I didn’t know who he was.  I just knew he wasn’t Aljoscha Rompe.  He wasn’t old enough, for a start.  They were all wearing the same style of clothes, all with an element of red on them, it just happened that Paul’s was the shirt, the reflected onto his pale skin, making him look like a small beetroot.   
  
                    “Klaus Landers!” He grinned, holding out his hand to shake mine.  “Professional divorcee and ruiner of modern music.  Pleased to meet you.”  
  
                    I hesitated a little bit, taking his hand to shake.  He had the firmest handshake I’d felt in a long time, and I liked that.  “My name is Richard Zven Kruspe… But most people call me Scholle.”  I told him, instantly regretting it.  That stupid fucking nickname.  It would haunt me for the rest of my life.  I knew it would.  Why had I told him that?  
  
                    I watched his face change and that wide smile was back.  “I like it.  One day you’ll have to tell me how you got that nickname, but I have to get on stage now.”   
  
                    He left, and I felt a sudden kick in the back of my throat.  I wanted to speak more to him.  I wanted to know more about this person, and I wanted to spend way more time in his company.  I needed to know this man.  He was interesting, to say the least.  I watched him walk away from me, sucking down the last of the cigarette before stamping it out on the floor.  He bumped into a table as he walked away, which, in turn, caused him to bump into a group of men who were all at least a foot taller than he.  He grinned at them, apologizing profusely and walked away, and the men seemed happy to let him go.  It made me laugh.  That smile of his was infectious.  
  
                    I made my way to the dance floor of the club and lit up a cigarette.  I’d been to shows before but this was the first really famous punk band I’d seen here.  My own band seemed to be uninterested in playing shows at the moment.  We’d seen all of the local bands, and Feeling B were one of the biggest Ostpunk bands we’d had at this tiny venue on the outskirts of Berlin.  I’d always wanted to be in a band who’d gotten to be as famous as Feeling B.  They were really living this western lifestyle in the East and it was wonderful.  I’d wished that could have been me.  I wished I could have been in that band.  
  
                      When the lights came up, the opening chords rung and it felt heavenly.  I’d always enjoyed being in the crowd at shows and I’d always loved watching bands perform live.  It was when you really got to see them for who they were, and this band were fascinating.  The lead singer walked off the stage as the band began to play.  The guitarist I’d been speaking to began jumping wildly about the stage, the drums louder than everything else, their keyboardist dancing behind his equipment and it all looked like an absolute mess.  It was the most punk thing I’d ever seen in my life.   
  
                    The singer eventually came back, and the song went on, and the crowd sang back to them and joined in.  It was incredible, and an awesome atmosphere to be in the middle of.  This was the reaction I’d always dreamed of for my own band.  The East, however, had never been very forthcoming with helping bands and allowing them to become really famous outside of their little hovels.  Music was a pastime, not a job, and therefore we all had to buckle down and do something else with our time that was productive for the state.   
  
                    When the show came to a close, the crowd dispersed and I was left feeling a little empty.  There was no cure for post-show blues.  They had been so electric, so wonderful and I wanted more.  I wanted to see more of this band.  I never wanted the show to end.  But it had, and people were clearing out.   
  
                    I couldn’t find them afterwards either.  I couldn’t find that mysterious man.  I’d probably never find him again.  
  
                    I took myself home and sat by myself for a while.  The adrenaline from the show was wearing off and I was growing tired.  I regretted not spending longer looking for the band.  I wanted to speak to him more.  I wanted to get to know the whole band more.

 

**[***]**

  
                    I had a few shirts and trousers I needed to take home to my mother’s house, that morning, but I didn’t want to go.  I didn’t even really want to get out of bed but the growling in my stomach told me I should probably leave soon otherwise it might start to eat itself.  I felt so much disappointment at the result of the evening previous.  I wanted to find them but they’d probably left town already and I’d not see them for another year or so.  He’d probably not remember me.  Klaus Landers.  A real man of mystery.  
  
                    I searched through the house, and there was nothing.  No food in the cupboards, no food in the fridge, nothing to drink, not even coffee.  I just wanted to fill the void in my stomach with anything to absorb the beer I’d drunk the night before.   
  
                    I made my way to the town, going to the supermarket to buy myself something to eat with what little money I had on my person.  I’d thrown on a Kiss t shirt I’d found in a clothing store.  I’d saved up so much money to buy it, and I’d worn it to death.  It was definitely falling apart.  It wasn’t even black anymore, but a greeny, greying blackish colour where it’d been washed so many times.  The P.A. system in the store was playing Das Buch by Puhdys, a very acceptable song from the East at the time.  I picked up an apple, some coffee and some milk, and made my way to the counter.  I’d pick up some other bits later in the day but for now, this would do.  I asked for a packet of f6 cigarettes and paid, leaving to head home.  I didn’t have work until much later that evening, so I decided to go home and write some music.  
  
                    There was a dull layer of clouds filled the sky.  The weather had predicted rain that afternoon, but at this time in the morning I was safe to get home and there was still plenty of men and women busying themselves with getting to work with briefcases and folded umbrellas, on their way to the station to catch the U-bahn.  The late commuters, I noted, as I looked at my watch and it read 9:30.  Berlin was always busy though, twenty four hours a day.  There was never a moment where people were resting.  They were always doing something.  The city had to be productive, even if it had been torn apart.   
  
                    Just as I turned the corner onto my street, I heard someone whistling; wolf-whistling.  I turned to look, and saw a young man, blonde, in terrible clothes.  He whistled again and I turned fully to see who he was and who he was whistling at.   
  
                    “Hey!  Is that some top quality Scholle I see over there?!” he called, and I immediately knew who he was, and a smile pulled at my lips.  How had Klaus found me?  I waved, and he came walking towards me.  “I was wondering if I’d find you again.  I missed you after the show last night!” he explained, and stamped out the cigarette he held in his hand.  He immediately lit up another one, doing that thing where he’d roll it between his lips, from left to right in an overly practiced move before lighting it behind his hand.   
  
                    “Yeah, I couldn’t find you either!  So I just came home.” I explained, and felt a little guilty that I didn’t try harder to find him.   
  
                    “Hey, so listen. We’re going to the beach.  Do you want to come with us?”  
  
                    “The beach.  In October.  Are you serious?”  
  
                    “Yeah!” He said enthusiastically, “I love swimming when it’s cold.  Usually I hate the water, and don’t really like swimming, but I like daring myself into the cold depths when it’s like this.  It’s perfect beach weather!”  
  
                    I watched him for a moment, and realised I couldn’t stop looking at his mouth.  The way his lips formed words, the creases and smile lines obvious in his face.  That smile was infectious.  But I caught myself before the thoughts got too deep.  What the hell was wrong with me?  
  
                    “I… I have to be back by five.  I have a shift at six.”  
  
                    “I’ll get you back by then.” He nodded, offering his pinky finger on his right hand forward.  “Pinky promise.”  
  
                    I smiled and linked my finger with his.  “You said ‘come with us’?  Who’s us?”  
  
                    “Oh… I meant me.” He laughed, “Aljoscha and Flake have gone shopping for some records, but also some more jewelry bits, you know?” he lead me to his car, and unlocked it.  This was probably the oldest van in all of Europe.  It was a beat-up VW wagon, that they’d made their home.  And really, it shuddered along at no great speed, but it was beautiful.  It looked so comfortable, and the three of them in this van seemed like an impossibility.  How they spent all their time together without murdering each other, I had no idea.  
  
                    When we arrived, I realised it wasn’t a beach, and that wasn’t the ocean, but it was a very large lake.  I should have known, being where we were in East Berlin, the nearest beach was hours and hours away.  The city beach was deserted at this time of year, but that was perfect for him.  He looked at me from the drivers seat, a grin on his face, and he said nothing as he got out of the car.  I watched a moment, shock hitting me as he began stripping his clothes from him as he got closer to the water.   
  
                    “Come on Richard!”  I heard him call over the wind.  “The water’s warm!”  I could see he was only in up to his ankles, and that he was most likely lying, but something drew me to him.  I took off my shoes and socks before getting onto the sand, leaving them on the front seat of the van before taking off down the beach with him, striping to my underwear, just as he had.   
  
                    “You’re a Schwerin boy, aren’t you.”  He said as I got closer.  It wasn’t really a question, more a statement of absolute fact.  “I can tell.  All you men from up there are the same.”  He laughed, walking into the water a little further.  “Fucking hell.”  He shivered, “Richard it’s lovely!”  he called, and the two statements did not match.  It was definitely not lovely, and when I stepped forward, I knew he was lying.   
  
                    “I grew up in Wittenberge.”  I told him.  I don’t know why I felt compelled to open up to him.  As much as I wanted to know him, I desperately wanted him to know me.  I wanted him to understand who I was.  I didn’t know why I needed this so badly.  
  
                    “It’s all north of Berlin, you’re all the same!” he laughed, stepping backwards in the water.  There must have been a dip in the bed because he sank down and nearly disappeared into the water completely.  I couldn’t help but laugh, and I stepped forward to offer him my hand, carefully stepping up to him so as not to slip the same as he did.  He shouted, swearing as the cold enveloped him, and he looked so shocked, like he’d been assaulted by the natural world.  
  
                     “Shut up, it’s really fucking cold.”  He growled, gripping my hand.  I could feel the cold travelling up my calves the further into the water I stepped.  It was really cold, and I had no intensions of getting in any further.  
  
                    “I thought you like the October cold?” I said calmly, attempting to pull him up.  
  
                    “I do!” he grinned, yanking my arm, pulling me face first into the water with him.  The cold enveloped me, and it pushed the all the air out of my lungs.  It was such a shock, and I could hear him laughing before I’d resurfaced.  And while he was laughing at me, there was no malice in it.  There was only warmth, and as I came up, he was lying on his back, floating in the water, laughing to himself.  I watched him, for a moment.  I smiled, watching him float away from me.  He was so at peace.  For someone who just kind of drifted through the GDR, he fascinated me.  It wasn’t often you found people like that.   
  
                    “Come to me, Richard.  Swim like the scholle I know you are!” he laughed, and I did as I was told, swimming to meet him.  I could no longer reach the lake bed, so lay myself out flat next to him, and he took hold of my hand.   
  
                    “Did you know otters have soul mates, and when they sleep like this in the water they hold hands so that they don’t drift away from one another.”  He told me, and he looked over at me.  “Don’t drift away from me, Richard.”  He said softly, gripping my hand tighter.  “We are soul mates drifting through the waters of the east together.”  He told me, dragging himself closer to me.  It was strange to refer to us as soul mates.  We'd met one another once before this, but he seemed so sure of this connection between us.  He was a strange one.  
  
                    We stayed like that for what felt like hours.  The water didn’t feel cold at all, lapping at our skin as we held onto one another.  I felt the oddest connection to this man, and I didn’t even know him.  I didn’t know him at all, but I wanted to know him.  I wanted to spend more time with him.  
  
                    I wasn’t sure what time it was when we finally surfaced and wandered back to the van to get warm and dry, but I was sure I’d missed my shift at work.  I looked at the clock in the car and it was half past five.  My shift began at six but there was no way I’d make it home to change within half an hour.   
  
                    “Sorry man…”  he said, “I guess you’re going to miss work tonight.”  
  
                    “Can we stop at a phone box so I can call them and let them know I’m sick or something?”  
  
                    I don’t think my boss bought the bullshit excuse that I gave him, but he told me I could start an hour later, but needed to sort myself out.   
  
                    The car ride home was mostly silent, save for the radio on low volume, and I took the time to take him in.  He was concentrating on the road, and I felt like I could really look at him now without him feeling a little weirded out by it.  He had incredibly soft features.  There was nothing Hard-East-German about him, and I liked that from the beginning.  He wasn’t your typical GDR citizen.  But he was the typical Berliner type.  The first thing I noticed at the beach was how thin, and just how small, he was.  He was right that all the men from where I’d grown up were the same; we were all broad shoulders and barrel chests.  We were all the idealized men of the time, strong soldier type men.  Whether we were mentally soldier types or not, I don’t know.  But we all fit the strong alpha male type that the GDR were fond of.   
  
                    But he was small, and quite pretty to look at.  His hair was bleached beyond belief.  I could see the regrowth clearly because the healthy hair stood out so starkly from the bleach-burnt ends.  He’d pulled it back from his face with a piece of fabric that’d probably been torn from a t-shirt, but having his hair pulled back only added to highlighting his other features.  Quite frankly, He was beautiful.  
  
                    My thoughts on him were interrupted when I spotted an ID card on the dashboard.  I picked it up, not really thinking about what a massive invasion of privacy that was.   
  
                    “Who’s Heiko Paul Hiersche?”  I asked, frowning across at him.  He immediately burst into a wonderful fit of laughter, taking the card from my fingers to look at it.  “Is he your brother or something?”  
  
                    “What name did I give you last night?  I forget?”  
  
                    “Klaus Landers?”  I said, frowning, but he continued to laugh, and I couldn’t help but join him.  “What?”  
  
                    “I’m Heiko Hiersche.” He grinned, putting the card back where it had been.  “But I am also the man of many names, as are you, Richard Scholle Kruspe”  he laughed, turning onto my street.  “I forget who I am sometimes.”  I pointed to where my apartment building was and he pulled up outside.  “You can call me Paul.  Everyone knows me as Paul Landers.  Heiko Hiersche is no more.”  
  
                    “Oh, well that’s fine then.  I was born Zven Richard Kruspe but I prefer my middle name…”  I smiled, pulling my jacket around me.  We sat in silence in the car for a moment before I made move to open the passenger door.  “I had fun today.”  I told him, smiling warmly.   
  
                    “So did I.  We should do it again, right?”  he nodded, taking my hand.  I looked down at his fingers wrapped around the palm of my hand, and then back up at him, and his expression had become very serious all of a sudden.  “Don’t drift away from me, Richard Zven Scholle Krupse.”   
  
                    “I won’t…” I said hesitantly.  
  
                    “We are otters… Soul mates drifting together.  Don’t forget that.”   
  
                    I was already stepping out of the car at this point, and felt a little awkward.  Were we really soul mates?  What did he mean?  What was he getting at?  
  
                    “Goodbye Richard Scholle Kruspe.”  He said to me.  
  
                    “See you later, Paul Heiko Klaus Hiersche Landers.”


	2. Chapter 2

                    It was around half past seven in the evening when the phone rang for the first time since I’d moved in.  I looked over to it on the wall, frowning.  I’d not given anyone except for my mother the number to the phone in my house (I'd spoken to her earlier that day) and yet here it was, ringing.  The sound was shrill, but I was cooking.  I turned the gas under the pan down, and turned down the radio and picked it up on the ninth ring, pressing the receiver to my ear cautiously, as if a gunshot might come from it.  
  
                    “Hallo?”  
  
                    “ _Hallo, is that Richard Kruspe?”_ said the voice on the end of the phone. _  
  
_                     “Yes?  Who’s calling?” I asked, frowning as I looked around, as if that might provide me with the answers to the curious person on the phone.  
  
                    “ _So you’re telling me I’m talking with the tasty bit of Scholle that is Richard Kruspe?”_ the voice said, and I knew who it was.   
  
                    “Yes… Paul…” I hesitated, “It’s Richard.”  
  
                    “ _Oh good, then I got the right number.”  
  
_                     “Yeah, how did you get this number?”  
  
                    There was silence on the other end of the line for a moment, and then sounds of someone pawing at the receiver.  “ _It was… phone book?  Definitely the phone book.”  
  
_                     I frowned, looking over my apartment.  I’d not been here very long, so the landlady must have registered me real quick.  “Oh, rig-…”  
  
                    “ _Do you have any idea how many Richard Kruspes there are in East Berlin?”_ he asked, a sort of mock annoyance in his tone.  “ _Loads.  Literally hundreds of you!  Do you know how many I called till I found you?”  
  
_                     “How many?” I asked, unable to hide the amusement in my voice.  
  
                    “ _Well, like, you’re the first one I called because you’re registered under Zven and not Richard, so you were pretty easy to find actually, but this could have been an absolutely monumental task.  You could have cost me hours, you know?”  
  
_                     I laughed then, leaning myself against the wall. “I’m sorry to have almost caused you an inconvenience? But how did you know my first name is legally Zven?”  I laughed, looking over at the pan of sausages that were keeping warm and my stomach growled.   
  
                    “ _Yeah, well you should be, And nevermind that!  I know things, Scholle, I know all the things.  Anyway, did you know you’re one of five Zven R Kruspes in East Berlin?”_ Paul explained, and it sounded as if he was shifting himself around.  “ _They put them in the book, newest first.  You’re the newest Zven in town! So congratulations”_ He laughed.  
  
                    “Thank you, I’m sure my mother will be very proud.”  
  
                    “ _Oh, she should be!  Hey, so the reason I’m calling...”_ He stopped and I heard the sound of a lighter clicking.  “ _I wanted to see if you were busy tomorrow afternoon and evening?”_ I heard him take a long drag on the cigarette he was smoking, exhaling heavily.  “ _And also possibly night time?”  
  
_                     “I don’t think I’m doing anything, actually.  I got the Saturday morning shift, so I’m free tomorrow night.”  
  
                    “ _Good!”_ Paul said, and I heard another voice in the background.  I couldn’t work out what it was saying, or who it was.  “ _I have to go, I’m being hounded by Aljoscha.  I’ll come by to you at about… say six on Saturday?”_  
  
                    “Sure thing.  I’ll see you then.”  
  
                    “ _I’ll see you then Scholle Kruspe.”_ And he hung up the phone.  
  
                    I stared at the receiver for a while, wondering whether that conversation had taken place.  Had he really hunted me down?  What did he mean by ‘ _I know all the things_ ’?  I remembered I'd told him my name before, and he must have put the two together.  The name I preferred didn't match my identity card.

  
**[***]**

  
                    It was at around six fifteen when Paul arrived at my apartment.  He looked nothing like the man who’d taken me swimming a few days previous.  He looked so wintery and warm all wrapped up in a bomber-like jacket, with fur lining the collar, his blonde hair poking out from under the back of a blue woolen hat, set high on his forehead.   
  
                    “This building is real old, Scholle, you know that?” was how he greeted me, a wide smile on his face, stepping inside to close the door behind him.  "Aljoscha was telling me about this building the other day.  Apparently it’s been here since before the war.  I thought the Russians took all that shit down but here we are!”  he explained, taking off his coat.  
  
                    Under the coat he wore a pair of black jeans that clung to his legs, with a grey shirt and a black vest over it.  He looked like some kind of new age pirate, his blonde hair pulled back from his face, his belt buckle shining in the dim light of my apartment.  I wanted to laugh.  He looked a lot cooler than he had done the first night I’d met him.  Why he didn’t dress like this on stage, I had no idea.  
  
                    “Apparently it was a Russian strong hold? Like, they evacuated all the people out when the shooting got bad and moved the Russian soldiers in.  Some bad juju in this place, Scholle, I’m telling you.  They did some terrible shit here.”  
  
                    “I had no idea.”  I said, looking at the bag he’d placed on the kitchen counter.  “I’ve not been here very long.”  But then anywhere around central Berlin was bound to have some history from the war.  It was practically unavoidable at this point.  
  
                    “I can tell, you still look like you’ve just stepped out of the gym in Schwerin.”  He held up his arm and tensed his bicep, squeezing his and then reaching over to squeeze the top o my arm.  I laughed, seeing his thin his arms were.  That'd never have settled for skinny back home.  
  
                    “Wittenberge is an hour south of Schwerin, Paul… but I used to do wrestling at school.  They made us beef up a lot.” I corrected him, taking a seat at the table.   
  
                    “I know that, but they treat kids the same way in schools there as they do further north.  The closer to Russia you get, the more like Russia it is.  You did Wrestling, I'm betting you were probably forced to instead of something actually meaningful.  Must do sports.  Can't be creative or feel emotions.  Must be masculine!” he taunted, but there was nothing mean.  He was right.  There was no room for emotions where you had to be masculine at all times.  
  
                    I let out a laugh, looking over him as he came to take a seat opposite me.  He pulled out a crumpled packet of cigarettes from the pocket of his jeans and set it on the table in front of him, as well as the lighter.  He sighed softly.  “I thought we could just maybe sit here and chat for a while, you know?  Our place is so busy. Aljoscha never has a quiet house, and I can’t afford to leave him right now.”  
  
                    “Leave him?”  I asked, “What, is he like your… boyfriend or something?”  I frowned, watching him a moment.  He laughed at my question, and fixed himself a cigarette, exhaling long into the room above us.   
  
                    “He’s not my type.”  He began, and his laugh that accompanied the statement was warm and welcoming.  “No, you know I'm divorced very recently, and I’m staying with him till I get back on my feet, you know?”  
  
                    “Oh I’m so sorry to hear that.” I added, watching him carefully. He offered the crumpled packet to me and I took one, settling back into my seat.   
  
                    “It’s alright.  It was doomed to fail anyway, so we were just succumbing to the inevitable.  I actually lived with Aljoscha and Flake before I married her, but it does feel a little like moving back in with your parents.”  
  
                    I laughed at that, looking down at my cigarette.  “I tried very hard to leave home as soon as I could.”  I told him.  “My parents weren’t the best, but they weren’t the worst, you know?”  
  
                    “I do…” He replied, getting to his feet.  He brought back with him the carrier bags he’d come with, and pulled out a few bottles of beer.  He used an upturned, unopened bottle to crack open the other and handed it to me, doing it once more to open it for himself.  “Prosit!”  he grinned, clinking bottles with me before taking a long drink.  “My parents made me grow up in Russia, and then we came back to Berlin while I was still a child.  I left home very early in my life, and met Aljoscha and Flake.  We’ve been like this odd little family for a very long time.”  He said softly, staring down into his drink.  
  
                    “At last you had them there,”  I said, smiling as I drank some of my beer.   
  
                    “You’re right, it is a good job otherwise I’d be out on my arse.  Not exactly on the best terms with my parents.” Said Paul, shaking his head as he tapped the ash from his cigarette off into the ash tray.  “Aljoscha is the punk dad we needed growing up.”  
  
                    He exhaled a long cloud of smoke into the air, and he was silent.  There was no noise between the two of us, just the gentle sip of a bottle of beer, and the sound of a cigarette burning down as we took a pull on it.   
  
                    It was strange to think that he offered this information so freely.  We were still virtual strangers, but he clearly wanted us to know one another better.  He’d grown up in Russia, left home at a young age and joined this punk cult/commune with Aljoscha Rompe.  He was fascinating.  I didn’t want him to stop telling me stories.   
  
                    “Do you have any records?”  he asked me, breaking the silence between us, interrupting my thoughts.  He looked eagerly at me, and I felt that infectious smile catching.   
  
                    “I do, I’ve not had time to unpack them though, they’re in a box still, hold on.”   
  
                    “Cool Kiss poster, by the way.  Why’s it so battered?”  he asked me, looking at the taped poster hanging on the back of the door.  
  
                    “Oh, yeah…”  I said softly, “My step father tore it up when he found it in my bedroom at home.  I spent hours taping it back together…”  I smiled proudly, putting the box of records down on the table before him.  “He thought it was ‘anti-east’ to be a fan of an American band.” I laughed, sitting myself back down.  “He’s probably right.  They’re about as capitalist as you can get.  And I love it.”  
  
                    He thumbed his way through the records in the box and pulled out one, “Then this is fitting.”  He held up a copy of _Lick It Up_ by Kiss and grinned at me.  “How did you even get this?  They’re impossible to get a hold of?”  
  
                    “I knew a guy back in Wittenberge who got them imported to him from his cousin in the west.  Very dangerous stuff but they weren’t all that expensive.” I lied.  It had cost me more than anything else in that box.   
  
                    “You’ll have to hook me up with this guy.  Sounds awesome, Scholle.  I don’t think I’ve heard this whole album through.  I’m excited to hear it.”  I watched him wander to the record player and carefully extract the record from the case, placing it down delicately on the turntable.  He was meticulous, gently raising the arm and pacing it onto the disc, setting it at the right speed, turning the volume up ever so slightly.  “I know these albums are meant to be played loudly, but I just like to absorb it normally first, then jump around to it.”  Said Paul, settling down onto the couch opposite me.  He spread himself out, stretching his legs out in front of him, beer in hand.  He looked so at home, at ease.  “Come, join me.” He said, patting the seat next to him.  
  
                    I did as I was told, and took the seat next to him, picking at the label on my beer bottle, listening to the riff of _Exciter_ played to us.  He usually spoke so much, but at that moment, he was so profoundly silent that it was a little unnerving.  The concentration on his face as he listened, and listened so intently, was fascinating.  
  
                    I took a little more time to look at him.  He didn’t look as soft as he had the other day, but his face was the same sweetness as it had been before.  He looked smarter today.  He wasn’t all large, ill-fitting clothes.  I noticed the way his profile looked in the dim light and felt myself smiling.  He was very handsome, there was no escaping that.   
  
                    Not hearing him speak was the weirdest part of that evening.  Paul had a constant stream of chatter ready to fill the void with noise.  It struck me that he probably wasn’t a fan of silence.  People who speak too much usually never want the noise to end.  It scares them.  Paul had spoken from the moment he’d arrived at my apartment and this was the first time he’d been silent.  But it wasn’t completely silent, with the record playing behind us.  It was quiet, but it was still there, filling the void with something to listen to.   
  
                    “I can feel you looking at me.”  He said in a very small voice.   
  
                    “Sorry.”  I said, looking back down at my beer bottle.   
  
                    “I could feel you staring at me in the car too.”  He admitted, “No one really stares at me that way, in a way that I can feel it.”  He stopped speaking again, and his eyes were looking down into his hands.  He licked his lips and put the bottle to his mouth, taking a drink before putting it down on the ground to the side of the couch.  I glanced at him, watching him shift in his seat to face me properly, turned sideways to look at me.  
  
                    “Have you ever felt someone’s eyes boring into you?”  he asked me, and I looked up at him then, nodding.   
  
                     “Does it make you uncomfortable?”  
  
                    I nodded again.  
  
                    “You don’t make me uncomfortable, Richard.  I like it when you look at me.”  
  
                    I liked looking at him.  
  
                    He leaned in close to me, so close I could feel the heat of his body on my own.  I wasn’t very sure why I was allowing him to move this close to me.  As far as I was aware, I was a heterosexual male, and so was he, so why was he shifting on the sofa so close to me.  I knew what was coming, and I couldn’t say I was completely against it.  I was generally quite comfortable in my sexuality, but being this close to this man, in this close proximity, I felt as though my entire body was on fire.  
  
                    “Can I kiss you, Richard?”  
  
                    He didn't call me Scholle.  He called me Richard.  This must be something serious.  
  
                    He didn’t kiss my mouth, as I had expected him to.  No he started at my jaw, and the feel of his lips against my skin made every part of my body extra sensitive.  His fingers gently caught the back of my neck as his kisses moved to my throat, and I felt the nerves in my body send signals straight down to my groin.  His hair gently bristled against my skin, and his other hand came to rest upon my chest.   
  
                    I wanted to verbalise the feelings he was giving me, but all I could offer were whimpers and moans, unable to push my brain to function on a higher level than base urges.  
  
                    I swear, I had never been attracted to another man in my life, and yet I couldn’t bring myself to stop this man from touching me.  I didn’t want him to.  I’d never really been the submissive, passive type, but I was frozen stiff.  I couldn’t bring myself to touch him in return.  I’d not gotten his permission, and I felt as though I needed it.  He’d asked my permission to kiss me, but I’d not returned by asking him if I could touch him.  I wanted to put my hands on his body and feel him under my skin.  
  
                    But then he kissed my mouth and my entire body melted.   
  
                    I wish I could fully explain how the kiss felt, and yet, words were entirely lost on me, and always would be when it came to explaining this man.  I didn’t think a kiss could be so erotic, but in that moment I wanted nothing more than to tear his clothes from him and do whatever I could to make him feel as he’d made me feel.  My fingers moved into his hair and he maneuvered us so that he was on top of me properly, his hands finding the skin on my body that was exposed where my shirt had ridden up.  His fingers ghosted over my skin and sent little electric signals to my brain, each one shutting down conscious thought quicker than the last.  Every ounce of my being felt as though it was his.  I didn’t think a kiss could make me feel this way, but there we were, joined together at the lips, writhing together on a second hand couch my mother had given me.  
  
                    But God, he tasted heavenly.  I gripped the lapels of his vest and pulled him closer.  I wanted to devour him.  All of the thoughts of what might happen between us began circling my mind.  I began to panic a little.  I’d not done anything like this with another man.  With a woman, it was fairly simple; you knew where you stood.  But with this, I had no idea how far he was going to go.  I didn’t care, deep down.  No one had ever made me feel this way, and no one had ever made me want to make a person feel the same.  I had always been quite a selfish lover, and yet I wanted to give to him until he could take no more from me.  I didn’t care about my own pleasure anymore.  I wanted to give everything I had to him.   
  
                    And then it was over.   
  
                    He stared at me for a moment, a smile pulling at his lips.  He moved himself to sit back next to me, and I sat myself up, acutely aware of my erection pushing against my jeans.  I was uncomfortable and unsatisfied.  I needed more.  
  
                    “I need a drink.”  He said softly, and I nodded.  My body felt like mush.  I didn’t think I’d be able to get up but I was trying my hardest to get to my feet.  “No, stay there.”  He said softly, “I’ll get it.”  
  
                    He got to his feet with ease and disappeared into the kitchen.  I heard some fumbling around, the sound of plastic rustling and then the sound of a bottle opening.   
  
                    My mind was racing at the possibilities of what had just occurred.  I hadn’t ever thought that I’d be this turned on by a man but at the same time I’d never closed myself off to the possibility.  I’d known there was a modicum of attraction between us but I’d not really expected it to be this.  I wanted nothing more than to bury myself in him and devote myself to him.   
  
                    The record finished the A-side and stopped turning, and I finally managed to get myself to my feet, awkwardly making my way to the kitchen.  I wanted more.  I didn’t want to be away from him.  I wanted to feel him against me again.  I wanted to smell him, the aftershave he’d thrown on in haste, I wanted to feel his skin, and explore it with my tongue.  I had never been left feeling like this before and I never wanted it to end.  
  
                    But the kitchen was empty.  
  
                    All trace of him was gone.


	3. Chapter 3

                    When I arrived home from work, there was a large, thick envelope lying on the mat with my name on it.  There was no address, which meant someone had dropped it over to the apartment by hand, and it wasn’t a handwriting I recognized.  It didn’t fit the way we’d all been taught to write as children.  It was unnaturally neat, written in fountain pen, in full cursive.    
  
                    I stood on the doorstep for the longest time, examining the handwriting, gently running the envelope through my fingers.  It was only a simple manila envelope but it felt heavy, like there were many papers stuffed inside of it; but whoever had sent it had taken the time to write so neatly.  I had a feeling in the pit of my stomach that I knew who this was from, so when I reached my apartment I took a knife and cut the envelope open, taking care not to damage the papers inside.  Everything about this letter felt so formal, and yet when I spotted the name at the bottom, my suspicions had been confirmed.    
  
                    “ _Richard_ ,  
  
                    _“I feel like I need to explain myself but I wasn’t sure if you wanted to see me, so I figured this way you could choose to read and understand or you could just throw this letter away and have done with it.  It’s your choice.”  
  
_                     I stopped looking down at the paper in my hand.  I felt a sickness in my head and felt my blood rushing a little too fast.  Why was I feeling this way for a person who treated me like shit?  He just left me alone, after the greatest kiss I think I’ve ever had.  I didn’t have a good feeling about this.  
  
                    “ _Assuming you’ve decided to read further, I’ll carry on.  Up until that day I’d never really looked into feelings I might harbor for another man, not that I’d ever completely written them off.  I was married to a woman.  I had a wife, and I have a son, Richard.  It’s not easy to simply switch that off, but there was something about you that just awoke something within me and there was no way I could ignore that feeling.  I needed to know what they were.  I needed to know what you made me feel.  I didn’t realise you’d never been with another man also.  I had no idea, and I still feel guilty for doing this to you.  I shouldn’t have lead you, a presumably straight man, on as I did.  
  
_                     “ _I wanted to explain that, while I am recently divorced, I crave affection.  I always have done.  I love the feeling of being with you, Richard.  The two times we have spent together have shown me a lot about myself.  I just don’t want to disappoint you, Richard.  I want to be all I can for you.  It causes me so much anxiety that I wouldn’t be enough for you, and if I am not, then please tell me.  Don’t leave me in the dark_  
  
                     “ _I crave whatever it is you gave me that night and I need more of it.  I want it.  But I feel like I am at the bottom of a well, looking up at the bright, burning light above, and there’s a shape in light that isn’t casting any shadows.  But it’s so bright, I can’t work it out, and I am so frustrated with not being able to see.  I can’t see past that light, and that’s how you make me feel, Richard; you are the light surrounding everything dark, and I know there is something waiting, but I can’t see it to stop anything from happening.  I don’t want to stop it from happening.  I just want to enjoy being with you.  
  
_                     “ _I’d like to see you again, if anything, and I’d like very much for you to meet with me again.  If you want to, there’s a show at Klub Der Republik in Prenzlauer Berg tonight.  I’ve already put your name on the guestlist, just in case.  
  
_                     _Yours forever,  
  
_                     _Paul Landers (Heiko Hiersche)”  
  
_                     Tonight.  
  
                    I put the letter down and looked at the other pieces of paper in the envelope.  It was a large poster, folded down to fit, a flier for the event and a ticket with my name written on it.  _Scholle Kruspe_ written in the same beautiful handwriting as the letter.  
  
                    He wanted me there. I thought that I should maybe go down there and see what he had to say for himself but I was apprehensive.  What if we ended up in the same position as before?  What if he left me again?  I didn’t know if I could deal with that again.  
  
                    But why had he left?  He hadn’t really explained himself, just told me that he wanted me despite having left.  That sounded stupid.  I knew he was divorced and I knew that could fuck him up emotionally but maybe he was just scared?  Maybe there was something wrong with me?  I wasn’t sure what he really wanted.  Maybe this was a big joke to him, and my feelings were being royally fucked up in the process.  Did he really understand the emotional implications of what he did to me?  I wished then that I would know what was happening inside his head.  I wanted to know what he really felt.  


**[***]**

****  
I stood outside the venue and I felt sick with nerves.  The venue was a strange one, in the attic of an old school, but I could hear that they were already playing.  I looked up to the lights shining high in the building and noted the sweaty windows.  There must have been a lot of people up there, and by the sound coming out of it, there must have been.  I headed up the wobbly staircase, gripping onto the bannister as tightly as I could.  The music grew louder as I got to the door, and it was unmistakably Feeling B.  I felt so nervous.  I didn’t know why though.  Ultimately I wasn’t the one in the wrong here.  I was the wronged party here.  
  
                    But still, I was unsure.  I’d only just gotten inside the venue and he was busy on the stage way ahead of me.  There was still time to get out if I wanted to.  I watched him and felt knots in my stomach.  There he was, all in black, jumping around on the stage, the same as the first time I’d seen them.  Except this time, I stayed back; I didn’t enter the crowds or join in singing.  I only watched.  I remembered the first time I had attempted to look for them after the show and had been unable to find them.  So I decided to wait at the bar.  Eventually, Paul would come by there for a drink and would find me.  I’d developed a sense of bravery in this.    
  
                    It’s a strange feeling, being afraid.  It comes in varying degrees, and at that moment in time, the fear was becoming overwhelming.  I couldn’t explain why I felt so afraid.  What was there really to be afraid of?  He’d said in his letter that he wanted me, so why should I be afraid to see him?  There was always a chance that he wanted to meet and say that he just wanted to be friends, which I wasn’t so sure about.  But then the voice in the back of my mind told me that I’d probably been lured here under false pretenses; that he was making fun of me; that I was just a joke to him.  That voice rang overwhelmingly clear in my mind and seemed to be shouting over the other voices trying to contradict its message.  I downed the last of my drink and turned on my heels, ready to leave.  I couldn’t do this.  I wasn’t brave.  
  
                    As I reached the door, I felt a hand on my shoulder.  
  
                    “Hey, where are you going?”  I turned and looked and he stood before me.  He threw his arms around me and I could feel him smiling against my neck where he’d buried his face.  “I didn’t think you’d come tonight.”  His voice was almost unheard over the noise around us, but he took hold of my hand and pulled me through the crowd to the much quieter area on the other side of the stage.  It was hardly a backstage area, as you’d think, more just a little room for private functions.    
  
                    He looked at me and I felt those feelings in the pit of my stomach stirring again.  His hand didn’t leave mine, looking at me with wide eyes.  “It’s only a break in the set, but I’m glad you’re here.”  He said softly. I looked down at his hand holding mine and felt my heart aching a little.  Was I really that desperate for affection that I’d turn to a man who abandoned me previously?  I wasn’t sure, but I was curious to see what he’d do.  
  
                    “I was about to leave…”  I told him, unsure as to why I was admitting that.  What the hell was I doing here?    
  
                    “Oh, do you want to leave still?  Because you can, I mean… I’m not holding you prisoner here.”  He smiled, and I could tell he was nervous.  I was too.  I wanted to reach out and be closer to him then, the same as the last time, but I couldn’t bring myself to.    
  
                    “I don’t want to leave, no.  I think I’m over the initial nerves.”  
  
                    “Oh!  Well good then!  I have to get back on stage.”  He motioned to an older man hurrying him along, “Will you wait for me until we’re finished?”  he asked.  I nodded, swallowing the lump of nervous energy in my throat, and then he planted a kiss on my cheek before leaving me in an incredibly empty room.  I felt suddenly conscious that the few who’d been in the room had witnessed what had happened between us and would say something, but as I looked around, I noticed them all tied up in their own little conversations, concentrating on the people in front of them, rather than around them and I felt assured.  All I had to worry about was Paul.  
  
                    I heard the band start up again, and they were incredibly loud.  The room began to shake, and I thought the whole place might fall down.  I looked over to the stage and could see him dancing around with his guitar, and for all intents and purposes, he looked like he was having a brilliant time.  But I wasn’t.  I couldn’t shake the feelings in my body.  I couldn’t remove that nervousness, but more than that, I couldn’t get over the sense of rejection, of him leaving me there expecting him to return.  It wasn’t even being left unsatisfied, but it was just the act of abandonment that had affected me so.    
  
                    So I wrapped my coat a little tighter around me and left.    
  
                    He seemed to have this confidence in himself that I felt I’d never achieve.  He just seemed so sure of himself.  How could he possibly be interested in a person like me?  I was so insecure about myself, unsure of everything I did and whether it was right.  And here he was, confident enough that he could walk out on me and I’d come crawling back to him?  I wanted him to understand what it felt like to be abandoned.  In the pettiest way, I wanted him to know what I’d felt.    
  
                    I made it to the door once more.  Should I have turned back?  Was I being too harsh?  I patted down my coat and found my cigarettes, lighting myself one as I stepped out into the cold, deciding looking back to him was not what I needed to do.  It would only make me lose the ability to leave.  If I looked back, I’d crumble and stay, wait for him back stage.  The doorman wished me a good evening and I just stood in the street, not really knowing what to do with myself.  I didn’t really want to go home alone.  I also didn’t particularly want to go back inside.  I just stood, waiting, wondering what to do with myself.    
  
                    Had I been a little irrational for leaving?  I didn’t really allow him a chance to explain himself.  It was terrifying, I know it was.  I should have been more understanding and yet, I stood in the cold, having left him without an explanation.  But that’s exactly what he had done to me.  He was expecting me to be waiting there for him to talk when he finished playing.  
  
                    I felt the first drops of rain begin to fall on my head as I stood in the cold, finishing off my cigarette.  I could hear the music inside dying down and knew he’d be looking for me.  I thought I might wait for him out here, to see if he’d come and find me, and yet the heavens opened and I was forced to make my way home.   
  
                    I walked quickly, wanting to not get too wet but was extremely unsuccessful and this only served to piss me off further.  I felt like he knew I’d turn up.  Was I really that predictable?  Was I really that _pathetic?_ I wanted him to know that he wasn’t going to get by me that easily.  But deep down I knew that if he turned up at my door with those wife eyes and that infectious smile then I’d be pathetic enough to say _yes Paul, come right in, fuck up my life a little bit more!_ I picked up the pace, the rain falling a little heavier now.  Luckily I didn’t live far from the venue, but the rain had been heavy enough to soak straight through.  
  
                    I collapsed onto the sofa as I entered my flat, the door closed behind me, wet clothes soaking into the sofa.  I felt like a bit of an idiot for showing my face in the first place.  Paul probably wouldn’t have noticed if I hadn’t had been there, so I was uncertain as to why I forced myself to go.  I figured there must have been a part of me that was curious but all seeing him did was make me angry.    
  
                    I began stripping my clothes down, hanging my jacket first to let that dry before it started to smell funny.  I took off my shirt, which was soaked through and changed into a pair of gym shorts so that I was in dry clothes finally, hanging the wet shirt and pants in the bathroom before heading back to my bed.  I lay down and thought about this evening.  I wished I’d been less of an idiot and just stayed.  I shouldn’t have left, really.  I should have listened to him.  My thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door.  I cursed the fact that the downstairs door didn’t lock properly so it was inevitable that someone would enter.    
  
                    When I pulled the door open, I didn’t really know why I’d been so shocked.  It was inevitable that Paul would come and find me.  I knew, deep down, that he would, and that gave me a little assurance that he at least wanted to see me.    
  
                    “I guess I deserved that…”  Paul said softly, dripping wet and looking a little sorry for himself.  “I don’t blame you, Richard, really.”  Well at least he agreed with me, but that did little to allay the anger I felt towards him.  
  
                    I watched him for a moment, saying nothing.  I stepped aside to let him in and got him a towel to dry off from the rain.  We didn’t say anything to one another for the longest time.  I just watched him hang his coat over the back of a chair and dry himself off as best he could.  He turned to look at me and I wanted so badly to go over and kiss him once more like he’d kissed me the last time we’d been together, but I opted not to, sitting myself on the couch.    
  
                    “I wanted to speak to you and give you a proper explanation, Richard.”    
  
                    “I know, Paul.  I think I got the jist from your letter.”  I nodded to the papers on the table next to him.  “I understand.”  There was an ounce of anger in my tone.  I wasn’t impressed by him.    
  
                    “You do?” he asked, moving to sit next to me.  I felt that familiar feeling from the other night, a warmth creeping in my skin, from my hips up to my throat.  I felt flushed, just being close to him.  I didn’t know whether it was because I genuinely felt some kind of romantic feelings towards him, or whether I just wanted him to make me feel the way he did the first time.  I was still incredibly angry at him.  I thought he didn’t understand, and didn’t bother to try and understand why I’d be so angry at him.  
  
                    “Yeah, I’m just… still a bit angry, you know?” I told him, shifting uncomfortably in my seat.  What I wanted to do was hit him.  I felt like that might make me feel a little better about him.    
  
                    “I want to kiss you again.”  He said softly, his eyes trained on me as I was unable to look up from my lap.  
  
                    “Are you going to leave again?”  I asked him.  
  
                    “No.”  I could hear the guilt in his voice.  “I’m sorry, I didn’t think… I just… I was scared, Richard, okay?”  said Paul, chewing on his lip.  “Can you forgive me?”  
  
                    I nodded my head and he moved forward, pressing the softest kiss to my lips.  He was testing the waters to see if I’d stop him, but I didn’t want to.  I wanted to be close to him.  The anger seemed to calm down quickly inside me as he pulled away.  I wanted more.  I needed him.  
  
                    He pushed a little harder this time, his kiss more urgent, his fingers seeking out my hair to pull my closer to him.    
  
                    “I just needed to kn-…”  
  
                    “I need you to be silent now, Paul.  Don’t speak.”  I told him, kissing him once more, gently leading him back.  He stopped me there though and got to his feet, offering me his hand.  “Can we move to the bedroom?”  He asked, and I took his hand in mine and let him lead me, and he crawled on top of me, stopping only to pull his damp clothes from his body, going back to kissing my skin and my mouth with as much energy as I’d seen from him on stage that evening.   
  
                    When we grew tired, we lay together, and he nuzzled into my body, pressing himself the full length of me.    
  
                    “When I wake up,” I asked sleepily, “Will you still be here?”  
  
                    He pressed a soft kiss to the crook of my neck, and nuzzled himself there.  “Of course.”

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so, A few things need explaining, I feel. 
> 
> 1\. Klaus Landers refers to [this image](https://66.media.tumblr.com/8721c8d9ab734140ae430e6f7be35e80/tumblr_obrsdgmK6F1qbjjv1o1_540.png) which @mitternacht sent me after some hours of trawling through the depths of what i believe to be google image search. They all talk about Richard having 500 names but then... Paul... come on bro...
> 
> 2\. 'Top Quality Scholle" is also @mitternacht's Richard tag on tumblr. jsyk. 
> 
> 3\. I crave The Attention™ so, all comments, questions and criticisms are welcomed.
> 
> 4\. More notes will be added if need be.


End file.
